The Hidden Guilt of Lemony Snicket
by StarXEnoch
Summary: Lemony Snicket writes a private letter, revealing his own inner demons concerning his failures and cowardice.
1. August 29, 2002

October 12, 2006

One day before the release of _The End_

To My Dear Editor,

Our partnership is nearly ended. The thirteenth book "The End" has just hit the shelves, a phrase which here means "guarenteed to make us both more money and bring a tear to many a fan's heart." But even still, I cannot help myself from writing more. There is a deeper pain in my heart that I had never expressed. A stinging regret that only comes with hiding one's self away for so long. I have kept my secret locked away for all thirteen publications, but perhaps if I tell you, my dear editor, the weight off of my shoulders may be lessened somewhat.

I have spent these long years researching the lives of the Baudelaire orphans. But the truth is, I was never that far away from them. I was always in the city, or in the country, or in the grotto with them. I could have reached out to them so many times. I had an infinite number of chances to save them. But I didn't. I was afraid of being killed like everyone else who tried. I was afraid of the fires. I was afraid of the prospect of witnessing more grief.

The truth is, I was their godfather. Beatrice and Bertrand Baudelaire trusted me more than any man on earth. After all, I was one of the few uncorrupted members of VFD. I was present at Violet's, Klaus's, and Sunny's births. For reasons of safety they never knew me, but I always kept a close eye on them. I was the guardian the orphans should have gone to after their parents' deaths. I was the one who would have stepped in each and every time. I had thirteen chances to. I failed.

I am the reason why they suffered such abuse. I am the cause of their series of unfortunate events. And I live with that guilt every day. It stalks me like a ghost. It smothers me in my sleep. It mocks me in my work. It keeps me in this clock tower, locked away from the world. Writing books is all that I am good for. It is all that I have ever been good for. I am a coward.

I am a coward. I make no attempt to hide this. In each of my publications, I make a point of saying how brave the Baudelaires are, especially in comparison to me. I wish I had one ounce of their gumption. Their inventiveness. Their optimism. I might be something more than a well-worn recluse.

I am the last of the Snickets. Kit and Jacques are dead. If we had known what terrors would have befallen us, we would have never joined VFD. I would have never taken an apprenticeship at Stain'd By the Sea. But what's done is done, a phrase which here mean "I am all alone in the wide terrible world, and have been for time than I care to remember."

My parents are dead to, taken by fires. They had no siblings. So I truly am alone. No family at all, except one person. Recently I have discovered the existence of Kit's only daughter: Beatrice Snicket. Violet, Klaus, and Sunny do not know it, but she is the sugar bowl. The last member of the VFD dynasty. She is the future of our ancient clan. She will decides what direction it will go. Whether she will be the one to put fires out or be the one to start them will be her own decision.

Is not free will a rare and terrible gift indeed?

I wish I could see her. Touch her cheeks. Caress her hair. Tell her I love her. Tell her I will never abandon her. Tell her I will be the greatest uncle she could ever wish for. But I cannot. I do not deserve her.

It is not for lack of knowledge. I know where she now lives: With the Baudelaires on the other side of the city. She is three years old now. She has curly red hair, a pixie smile, a perky demeanor, and the three greatest parents any child ever had. I have walked by her house often on my errands. Every glimpse I get of her is both a stab to my heart and a joy. A contradiction, I know.

The Baudelaires do not know I am there. They are busy with their inventing and researching and cooking. They have no idea of the lonely old man who betrayed them in their youth. Many times I have been tempted to walk up those cobblestone steps and knock on their door. Why don't I? It is shame.

Shame, my dear editor. I am more evil than Olaf. He was evil by design. I was evil by choice. I am more neglectful than Mr. Poe. He was neglectful by ignorance. I was in full knowledge.

My hand grows sore. I will drop my pen for this night.

I remain your most faithful writer,

 _Lemony Snicket_


	2. August 29, 2012

August 29, 2012

One year before the release of _Who Could That Be at This Hour?_

To My Dear Editor,

Well, my friend, it turns out that I will never send you these letters after all. It is for the best. They were never for you after all. They were for me.

I walked up those cobblestone steps yesterday. I still do not know what possessed me. I walked up them and rang the bell. I considered running. I nearly did. In all my years, sprinting has become a talent of mine. But I stayed.

The most beautiful lady you ever saw opened the door. Even though she was wealthy, she was dressed in a simple black dress. A welding mask hung from her right hand. Her hair was tired up in a red ribbon.

For so many years I have thought about what I would say if this moment came. But now my tongue failed me. I tried to speak. I truly did. But I froze. I felt the pupils of my eyes dilate three times over.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked softly, "with the inventor?"

I shook my head, trying desperately to hold back my tears.

"With the researcher then?" Her voice was as low and calm as a chocolate chip cookie. In her eyes I could see the maturity and wisdom that only comes through overcoming great adversity.

"With the cook then?"

I managed to say, "No I'm not," but my voice shook so much I sounded as crazy as one of the girls in _Sucker Punch._

The lady cocked her head to the side. "Who then?"

At last I found my words. "With Beatrice Snicket. With…" I took a deep breath. My heart skipped three beats. "With my niece."

The lady gave a warm smile. For a minute she just stared at me. Stared at the man who neglected to save her and her siblings from a childhood of torment. The tendons in my legs twitched, and I knew I still had time to run. But I stayed.

For the first time in my life, I stayed.

And without saying a word, she offered me something. Something I had not been offered in a very long time. Her hand.

Violet Baudelaire offered me her hand.

I took it and she led me into her home.

I spent the rest of the day talking to her, and Klaus, and Sunny. I have not the heart to record the things I said to them, or they said to me. I can only say that they had been expecting me for some time now. They saw me as a fellow volunteer. A fellow firefighter.

And when Little Beatrice came home from school, they introduced me to her.

I had always thought that my reason for researching the Beaudirare's lives was to track their journey. It was not. It was to track mine. And now, having rediscovered the meaning of nobility and love, I now have the strength to tell my own story. I have asked many wrong questions in my life, but also many right questions. I will write my new volumes with a small sense of newfound hope. I have found a new publishing company and will release my first book next year.

The first book will be titled, _Who Could That Be at This Hour?_ The second, _When Did You See Her Last?_ The third, _Shouldn't You Be in School?_ The fourth, _Why Is This Night Different from All Other Nights?_

In Judaism we ask " _Why Is This Night Different from All Other Nights?"_ when we join at the Passover Seder and discuss the differences between slavery and freedom.

It is the question that I now ask myself.

Why Is This Night Different from All Other Nights?

Because after so long, I now have a family. I am loved. There are many events in my loved ones lives that I have been absent from. But there are many more that I now have the chance to endure with them.

Truly, grace and forgiveness are wonderful things, a phrase which here mean, "Truly, this is a very fortunate event."

Yours truly,

 _Lemony Snicket_


End file.
